


Nothing to See Here, Just a Typical Night in Dorian Gray's Music Room

by Atqueinstupracaballum



Category: The Picture of Dorian Gray - Oscar Wilde
Genre: Dorian Gray being...well Dorian Gray, God spare that piano, M/M, There is a piano, also while you are at it god please kindly spare mr Campbell, and it can be assumed that that piano was later banged upon, except the editing was done at 3 am, unlike my last post this one actually has proper editing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-28
Updated: 2019-07-28
Packaged: 2020-07-23 10:50:41
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 813
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20007100
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Atqueinstupracaballum/pseuds/Atqueinstupracaballum
Summary: Alan is tempted, as he attempts some friendly late-night serenading, by Londons favorite deceptive dandy





	Nothing to See Here, Just a Typical Night in Dorian Gray's Music Room

“You play wonderfully, Mr. Campbell.” His voice was like velvet as it purred shamelessly into his ear, warm breath tickling.  
“If only you would not distract me as so,” commented the compliment receiver. He knew well that he was already trapped. Still, preserving the facade of decency, his fingers kept their office of slipping and coaxing the keys of his gracious hosts grand piano. Behind him, there came laughter, airy and yet laced with the pride of seduction. A succubus to his prey. The boy knew what he was doing, Campbell was no fool to that fact. The breath came again, this time whispering against his neck. He could feel the scarlet lips of his lover hovering over his flesh, tempting him to lean back into the ghost of affection. He nearly laughed, warmth curling up in his stomach, there to stay if Mr. Gray kept his antics up. Of course, antics he did keep, even daring to enhance his methods. White clothed, delicate, rather feminine hands slid down his shoulders, gracing his arms, before coming tenderly to lay over Campbells larger, scarred and calloused ones.  
“I am distracting you?” Responded Gray, tone purposefully unaware.  
“Indeed you…” he trailed off, hands faltering as those luscious lips began peppering the skin of his neck and jaw with tantalizing kisses. “Are,” he finished, grasping the dandy’s wrists.  
“Do keep playing,” whined Gray, nuzzling desperately at the nape of his partner's neck.  
“My hands have better uses if you are to continue acting in such a manner.” Campbell attempted, after saying his piece, to turn and grasp the boy. The boy, however, had other plans, and stopped him and took his hands, leading them to hover once more over his instruments keys.  
“Please, Mr. Cambell, keep playing, and I will act perfectly alright. Serenade me and I shall worship you forevermore.” With those sickeningly sweet lies, he disengaged completely from the other man.  
Inwardly, Alan Campbell shivered in agony. Dorian Gray was under his skin, and he knew it. He had become, foolishly, and without his own initial recognition, encaptured by a young, sensual dandy who thought of his soul as nothing more but a quaint ornament. A siren who needed no water to drown his prey. Gray, undeniably, knew precisely what effect he had upon Campbell and his kind, and he reveled cruelly within it. Denying his tempted lover in such a blatant manner that which he wanted so desperately was proof enough of this. To see the older man grumble silently and suffer through his various seductions sparked a sadistic light within the young man, lighting his eyes up like a hunter having caught an especially scrumptious animal. The room was silent for a moment.  
“Very well,” Mr. Campbell admitted his defeat. One could not easily deny Dorian Gray of anything, in any scenario. A wicked smile, one which the chemist could not be witness to, but one which would have made his later doom prophesized, flashed across Gray’s delectable, flowery lips.  
“Thank you, dear Alan,” he purred, his expression once more that of a dotting angel as he came to his chemists flank, one hand spreading itself upon the other man’s shoulder. Alan gave him a wearily tender look, not yet able to put his mind towards his nocturne again. A smile was given to him, so bright, so heavenly, that he felt himself falling deeper into the snarls that the boy had set out for him.  
It was only as the young man settled himself on his partner's knee that Alan’s fingers once more began to sooth out from the piano a fantastical melody, though it was touched with melancholy, as all his pieces were. He sighed as an undeniable, ever-present hand began stroking his jaw, only one, and the most decent to relate, of the myriad of torturously frivolous ways in which its owner bestowed upon Alan his approval.  
“Perfectly alright, are you now?” He questioned, sarcasm biting his tone, for plainly this was no such thing.  
There would come a time when both men would lose fully what inkling of self-control they still possessed, then, and only then, would Dorian allow him to stop playing. Instead of strings plucking their sweet tune, it would be the endlessly more rapturous moans of his beloved which filled the music room. In the morning, as Campbell ran away from his lover's mansion, choked with shame, it would be remembered in the crevices of his mind only as a blur of passionate sacrilege, the arching of a spine, the fluttering of ashen eyelashes, expanses of ivory skin for him to feast. For now, he attempted to focus on keeping the tune steady and unfaltering as scarlet, devilishly angelic lips pampered what they could, and wonderfully fluid hands assured his place in hell’s flame.  
For now, he waited, a willing prisoner to Dorian Gray’s hand.


End file.
